Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 13, Number 20, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 11 November 1882 — Page 2

'S-Mfc...

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

TERRS HAUTE, NOV. 11, 1882

The Hirer of Life,

The following poem relating to the nine* of the tote Senator Hill, tent anonymously to tbe Atlanta Constitution, and much admired, now prove* to have been written by the wife of the late Senator's too: *.•

Oh, rugged river! restless river .%•*_ River of rear#—river of tears— Tbou river of Life.

River of tears! Yet o'er thy bosom Joy, as a bird flashes its gaudy wing. And drink* its draugbt of ecstacy from out thy crystal spring,

Oh. son-lit river, shadowy river! River of gladness—river of sadness— Thou river of Life!

Biver of gladness! Yet o'er the blue of the beautiful sky floats cloud. Out of whoso fleecy whiteness tbe Loom of

God is weaving a shroud.

Oh, beautiful river! while the star of youth is From tbe'silvcr sprinkled dfcv: Biver of Life! when health's elixir flowlg*

Paints thy waters its rosy dye.

Ban-lit river! when the days are full of peace. And tbe calm of tbe song the river sings, And tbe quiet Joy tho lullaby brings. We feel will never cease.

And wbllc tbe waters glow and glisten. Ah! how seldom do we listen To tbe turning of tbe ponderous wheel of

Time,

Over whose granite sides are rusbing Tbo waves ot tbe river in a symphony tublime!

But wben the waters are black and bleeding, Dyed with dread Disease's breath. Ana we feel tbe river leading

To tbo fathomless sea of Death—

Tben, sb! then. In our agony of soul We cry, "Ob, wheel of Time, one moment stayTurn back tho river, and coasc to roll,

For a life we lovo is passing away." "But God is tbe Miller, and tbe wbeol is turning, Though Griefs hot Irons our hearts aru burning, And tbe river's song—is only a moon, And tbe grinding wheel—sounds a groan,

But from out our midnight gloom Look upl Ood knoweth boat, 8eo tbe llfo we love as It catches the bloom

Of infinite radiance and rest! Its waters have mingled with tbo crystal stream

Flowing so close to the throne, And the waves have cnuiH '.fan golden glenm And.thO river's voice, Owt tender tone.

Awl tbo river In Heaven ft: its cnwtal calm Found its way through tr.ogolyen bar*, Flowing upward—beyond the garden of stars— To the feet of God and His Lamb.

I Ob, royal river! radiant river! lUvcrof Light—river of Lifo— Tbou river of Ood!

Love For A Day.

TUB AUTHOR OF "DORA, THOKI A DEAD HEART," "TWO KI8BES "T11K FATAL LILIES," £TC.

CHAPTER IV.

The words were ever before me in letters of flro—"Gone away—left no address!" Both by night and by day they beat upon my brain. Christmas passed bright lovely spring was coming. What was I to do?

Mark had gone away and left no address. No letter, no prayer from me could reach him. In all the wide world I did not know where to look for him, where to send to him. He seemed as lost to me as though ho had gone into another sphere.

What could I do? In the Julv of this year he was to come home and marry me I was waiting for him. I had no other future, no other home, nothing else to which I could look forward. "Where was h^—my handsome, brave young lover, who had loved so dearly and worshipped mo so entirely? Was he living or dead? Hope, health, strength, everything failed me except my faith that was undimned and untouched. If he was lyinp: ill, unable to writo, 1 knew he was thinking of me, longing for me if he had been suddenly sent to some distant place on business, from which perhaps he was unable to send news to me. he would be miserable, as I was. Even if he was lying dead in the depths of the sea, his last thought had.been mine. Every hour of the day and night this one question met tnc—What must I do? There were times when the impulse was strong upon mo to go out into the wide world and search Tor him. Then faith and patience came to my aid. They said, "Walt here for him. He will come with the lilies ami roses wait in hope ami patience."

The spring came and went I avoided looking at the lilacs. Their perfume filled the air—I could not help breathing it—but I avoided looking at them. My heart was sick, half dead with pain, and the sight of them would almost liar® killed me. Then June came •with its roses. My little store of money was all gone, and I knew that I could not remain many weeks longer at the cottage. Mark would come In July, if he were living and. if he dkl not come, I should know that he was dead. So, in desolation and anguish of heart, I connted thedavs. I dreaded at times to look in the mirror I was so afraid niv hair had grown gray. The color had left my face, the light had died from mr eyes but July was coming.

Ah, me. can I ever forget the sic torture of that month? "Every day I

went to the group of tree* where wo had

One and He would have come to me had he been living. My handsome, brave, true young lover was dead. omiki only pray to Heaven with weeping «yt* that I might die too. Paring those long months of suspense I had Rved through the suffering of a lifetime.

When the month of August came, 1 saw that part of my life was ended. I ut on a mine for my lover. The of my ufe had «et I would mount for Mark as wives trow for a beloved husband. 1 wsv.-r Uwugtit of aaother lover. or of futu.^ comfort, or hope, or tatppbiees. Wherever be taf dead, 1. remv heart was buried with him. i*» realities of life came up«* me, and 1 tx ve. sa. me from mad. Isold all my r* thin* -.-4. •t. jlly to :.u«t ftirev» to ayoM 1 :ae» I was twecty-v .* when I

g|P|ggp

THE MAIE

It was whispered from one

**H wrx"»'

to London to seek my1'fortune. The flirt post I obtained was that of teacher of English in a boaQiing^scbool in J^wTTdid not likeS.aEd through the influence of one of the elder pupils I obtained an engagement in England —not as governess this time, but as companion to Lady Yorke, who lived at a grand old place called -Westwood, in Kent. I was glad enough to return to England. Before going to Westwood, I went to Gracedieu, with perhaps a forlorn hope that I might hear some news of Mark—of how he had

^fwent the old round—from the Rector to the lawyer, and from him to Mark's acquaintances. No one had hedrd one word. He was dead—Mark, my darling!—dead, and I was alone. Th^re was out one thing before me—to live my life and pray that I might join him in Heaven.

The phase of feeling that came to me was a strange one. There were times when it seemed to me as if I hardly lived in this world. I could see very often that people looked at me as though they aid not quite understand me. How could they, when my heart and my senses were always with Mark in another world? y*

Lady Vorke did not look like a person wno was easily amused. I tools a seat as requested. "I was greatly pleased with your references, Miss Chester. Madame de Deffand tells me that you are devote. Is it true?*' She did not wait for an answer. "I am glad you have come," she continued "lime hangs heavily on my hands. May I ask for whom you are in mourning?'

Oh. Mark, how little that mourning expressed niv true sorrow for you. I felt my lips tremble when I answered— "for the gentleman to whom I wa3 engaged, Lady Yorke." "How verv sad!" she said, just in the same tone "in which she would have cried. "How verv pleasant!" Then she looked at me with a smile. ou did not tell me that you were a beauty, Miss Chester." "t did not know it." I replied. The only voice that had ever called me beautiful was hushed for ever. "People of your way of thinking do not value the gift of personal beauty. I suppose." she remarked. it was mv turn to smile. "What do you mean by my way of thinking. Lady Yorke?" "Madame tells me that your thoughts are more in heaven than on earth," she replied. "The man I loved is in heaven,' I said. "Where else could my thoughts be?" "People are not often true to a dead love

living are one and the same thing," I said, with the rash presumption of one ignorant and inexperienced. I had known only one love and one faithhow could I judge of others? "I hope that rooms." said Lady orke. I told Masbam. the housekeeper, to give yofi

out into1

another

that my lov.er was dead and then to those who cared most? for me there came agleam of pity for o^e who had no earthly ties.

It was in tho month of July that I went to Westwood. Lady Yorke was very candid with me. She told me that the one complaint she suffered from was ennui. She was lonely she wanted amusement she needed a cheerful companion. She should require me to spend the greater part of my time with her. I must read to her. answer her letters, send ont her invitations. She would expect me to spend ray evenings in the drawing-rflbm, to sing when needed, take a hand at whist. She wrote most unreservedly to me. The life would be tedious, she owned but then I should have a large salary and a comfortable home. "It mattered little to me how I passed the remaining years of my life as well might it be with Lady Yorke as with any one else If the lady were ill, were really an in valid, I could perhaps help to cheer her.

if tow will like your Lady Yoi lousckeepe

the two most cheerful. They 'n what we call the Queen's wing.' I hope you will be very comfortable, Miss Chester. I thinkjroa told me that you had no relatives?* "No," I repBed "I am quite alone in the world. "Ah, then." said Lady Yorke, with a pleasant smile, "you will be better able to devote^all vour time, thought, and attention to me.**

CHAPTER T.

In a few days I was quite at home at Westwood "and nn#ntood my duties. They were certa heavy. Fortunatefor me. with my great love of early rising ana fresh air, the? did not commence until ten in the morning. Lady Yorke did not care to be disturbed before that hour. I do not think she had ever »een the sun rise or tbe dew lying like diamonds on the grass. So tbe fresh sweet mornings were all my own. I rose almost with tho sun, thinking often tl if people knew how lovely the «r rnirjff they would never -'e EL. .. 4m sleep, and went

rig

iQQ UlliJ U111C1 CiivC lOrJ *u wv

was on one side of the blue Tfcy and 1 on the other. And I was possessed with the idea that he could near and see me. Ah, love, my love, how I loved yon!

Wben I went back to the house after those hours of peace and rest, my mind was braced for the day. If had not seen Mark, I had looked long and lovingly at the blue heaven where he was. I had not spoken to him but the whisper of the wind, the ripple of the leaves, the song of the birds, all seemed so many messages from him. After ten baa

o'clock I baa never another moment to call my own. Then Lady Yorke was in her boudoir, and every morning she had a thousand new wants, It was a puzzle to me how she invented them. There were letters to answer, invitations to send out. She liked to hear me read. Every day brought its papers, periodicals, magazines, new novels, all of which must oe re&d to her. Then we walked or drove. At luncheon Lord Yorke joined us and then her ladyship rested. We had another drive in the afternoon, dinner at seven, and in the evening Lady Yorke requested me to sing. I liked that time best, for I every sweet love-Song I knew, and sang always to Mark. Oh, my love, how I loved youl

Lord Yorke was a kindl

an in-

On the second of July—I shall never forget the date—I found myself at the pretty station of Woodheatnn. the nearest town to Westwood. A luxurious carriage awaited me, and I enjoyed the drive. Every one knows how the sea washes the fair Kentish coast. Even amidst the odor of the flowers, the scent of the rich clover meadows, and the fragrance of tiie rose-dbvered hedges, I distinguished the sea-breeze. The park was a beautiful undulating expanse, full of fine old trees of every variety of form, and carpeted witlwwild flowers. The house was a grand old mansion that had been built in tho reign of Queen Elizabeth. The sunlight fell on the great gables and the large windows. My courage almost failed me when I saw what a magnificent home mine was to be. I felt some little curiosity as to what Lady Yorke was like. I pictured her an invalid— pale, delicate, quiet. Before long I was her presence, and I perceived my mistake. I saw at oncio that her chief malady was duo to-having had all she wanted all her life. She had never known trouble or care. She was a slender woman, with dark blue eyes and dark hair. An expression of languid discontent marred the beauty of her face. There was a line across her white brow that betokened temper, and something in the expression of her lips told the same story. The room-was beautifully decorated and furnished. The lady herself was lying on a couch, doing nothing, neither reading tor working. She looked up with a glance of relief as I entered. "Miss Chester," she exclaimed, with something of surprise, "I am glad to see you! 1 was just leeling as though 1 did not know what to do with myself. Pray sit down."

I remember the first time that she seemed to wake to a consciousness of suffering. She had never been ill herself, ana she had never seen any one in pain. We were crossing the park, when suddenly above our heads we heard the discordant cry of birds. Suddenly a little bird fell fluttering and dying at our feet. It had been attacked and wounded by" some bird larger than itself. I shall never fonjet the look in the dark eyes, tbe faint fluttering of the little wings ere it died. I had raised it in my hand, and it had died there. "Poor little thing," I said. "It has had a short life but a merry one, I hope, in those great green boughs." "Is it really dead?" Lady Yorke asked. drawing near with a pole face. "I do not think I have ever seen anything dead." "Is that true, Lady Yorke?'* I asked, looking at her in wonder. "Yes. quite true." "Have you ever wondered what death is like?" I inquired. "1 do not think so. I have never thought of death at all." "Have you never lost any friends?" I asked again. "Has no one whom you loved died?" "No—no one whom I loved. People I have known have died: but then they always seemed to me quite apart from the rest of us." 1 looked in wonder at the beautiful face. "Have you ever thought that you yourself must die?" "I suppose I shall die sometime," she replied "but I am young now—1 need not begin to think about it yet."

I should think. Age and

naturally

together.

"My Mark was young," I said, "and strong-, fee never had a day's Alness, and he died." "Where did he dier asked Lady Yorke and suddenly I remembered that I did not know. That which seemed so certain to me might be verv nnoertain to others. "I try never to think of such disagreeable things," continued Lady Yorke. "It does no good, aud makes ones life miserable."

JPTfi'ft—i"" ff(t«=s

«TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAFFI

san{?

generous

man, quite fifteen years older than his beautiful, languid young wife. He worshipped her, and she ia her helpless way was fond of him. Tkey were very rich. They owned this fine estate at Westwood, and they had a magnificent house in London and a villa in Florence. That was Lady Yorke's whim. When the winter was too cold and the spring too wet, she went to Mentone, where she could bask in the sunshine the whole day long. They had numerous visitors and friends. It was to fill the interval between the departure of one set of visitors and the coming of the next that I was wanted. Lady Yorke could not endure to be alone she must be constantly 'amused. They had no children, and that was the one drawback. I liked Lord Yorke he was always kind and courteous to me. He was not much interested in politics the care and well-being of his estate occupied his whole time. He would not have a land-agent or a steward he did everything himself—kept his accounts, received his rents, saw his tenants, overlooked the home estate. Hardly a weed was pulled up without his orders. He was just as industrious as his young wife was the reverse. We were always excellent friends. At times he asked me to help him, and his thanks always pleased me.

Poor Lady orke! Young, beautiful, wealthy, she was yet one -of the most miserable and discontented of women. She had not a useful interest in the world. She had servants who waited upon her hand and foot she had a husband who indulged her and granted every wish that she expressed she was never called upon to make any exertion either of body or mind. She was never compelled to thinks Lord Yorke and Mrs. Masbam thought for her. If twenty visitors were coming, it made no difference to her. Before I had been many da$J there, I had-TOwrJfer character accurately. She was jH-frcm indolence. "Watching her for a'Whole day. seeing her study nothing but herself, her wants, her wishes.her whims and caprices, ordering things because she fancied and not because she wanted them, spending money profusely without even looking at what was purchased—seeing her send away the most delicate of fruits, the most rccherche of dishes, the most costly of wines, under some pretext or other too absurd to mention—I thought of the many poor women dying from want of food, or the many children perishing from hunger, and have wondered. She did not seem to know anything of the hard side of life. She ate from silver plate she drank from the rarest of Bohemian glass tea was served to her in the finest of Dresden china. She wore the finest of linen, of lace, silk, velvet, and satin she had jewels of priceless value in all her life she had never wished for one thing that had not been granted to her. She perhaps had read the words "hunger," "cold." "privation," "starvation," but she did not upderstand their meaning. IIow could she wheri she had never felt either cold nor hunger in her life? Her life had been a Sybarite life of pleasure, and the result was that beyond herself she had not a care or thought in the world. It seemed .to me that if I could awaken this sleeping soul, I should not haVe lived in vain.

ft,^

"No life can be really happy that is toot ruled by such thoughts, I replied. "We ought to live for the next world, and not for this." "Madame de Deffand said you were very serious. For my part I could not give my mind to such ideas. The very sight of that dead bird has made me feel ill and miserable." "Yet everything living in this world has to die sooner or later," I said.

She made no remark, but I saw that the indolent, selfish soul was roused from its long sleep. The first thought of death and pain had come to her, never to be forgotten.

em-

CHAPTER VI.

One morning, when several visitors were at Westwood, the conversation turned upon the Indian famine. We were all seated at luncheon. Some of the gentlemen remarked what a charitable country ours was—what lArge sums of money were forthcoming when any great disaster occurred. y,

Lord Yorke agreed. "But," he said, "I do not think we realize what the word 'famine' means. In our happy land we have not seen women and children dying by the roadside, plucking the dry roots and the grass in the pangs of hunger." "I have seen something like it," said Mr. Devine. "1 was in Ireland during the 'potato famine,' and I saw there scenes that will haunt me to my dying day—gaunt, hungry men, in whose eyes was a wolfish gleam, pale, patient women, dying without complaint, children like "spectres, with famine written in their races. I have seen mother and children lying dead together—and it takes a long time for hunger to kill." "Did you really witness all this?" asked Ladv Yorke. "I did indeed," replied Mr. Devine. "I did not know," said Lady Yorke, with a slight shudder, "that people ever died of hunger. I do not suppose that I quite understood the meaning of the word 'famine.1" "Your life has been a happy one, Louise," said Lord Yorke. You have seen only the rose-colored side of existence." "That must be true," she allowed more, gravely than I had expected.

The next morning I had to drive with Lady Yorke to Woodheaton she wanted to make some purchases. The morning was lovely, but her mind was evidently still disturbed by the conversation of the previous day. "Miss Chester," she said suddenly, "have vou ever seen people who were really ill from want of food?" "Yes, very often, when I was at home with my mother. She, out of her limited means, made a point of relieving some poor person or other every day." "And I," said Lady York, "have never, so far as I remember, relieved a poor person in my life. We send money to various charities but I have never personally given any away. I have seen BO few poor people."

I saw that her mind was awakened. We talked on the same subiect during the whole of our drive. I told her what I had seen" amongst the poor at Gracedieu—their patience, their industry, the pathos and beauty of their lives. "The true heroes and heroines of this world I said, "are the uncomplaining poor." "Heroes and heroines!" she repeated. "Why, Miss Chester, what can there be heroic in poverty'f' "Poverty bravely borne is true heroism," I said. "It is easy to be happy and contented when everything goes well, when one has plenty of money, plenty of food, and everything one can desire. What can be more heroic than the endurance of hunger and cold without complaint? I have read of what the world calls heroines—Joan of Arc, who won a throne for her king, Charlotte Corday, who slew the enemy of France but, to my way of thinking, the real heroine is the wife and mother whose life is one continual struggle, who denies herself that her husband and children may have enough, who works without ceasing, never complains, comforts her husband, brings up her children well, and practices heroic virtues unseen by any one, unknown even to herself. That woman is one of Heaven's own heroines."

Lady Yorke was silent and thoughtful during the rest of the day, but ill the evening she relapsed into the old lackadaisical mood.

A few days afterwards I asked her if she would go to Woodheaton again, and, having no other- engagement, she consented. Just what I longed for happened. When we reached the shop of the principal stationer, the wife of tho Rector was there. She knew Lady Yorke in a distant fashion.

Mrs. Durrantwas an active, energetic woman, whose life was filled with good deeds, the very reverse of beautiful, luxury-loving Lady Yorke. To my •eat delight, she began to talk to Lady orke about the badness of the times, the want of work, the poverty of the people. I shall never forget Mrs. Durrant's face when Lady Yorke languidly took out her well-filled purse. "Would money be of any use?" she tusked* "Heaven tless me!" cried the Rector's wife, startled out of all propriety.— "Why, Lady Yorke, it is only money that we want. Money will purchase food, coal, cJMhes, fuel, and everything

I heard the rustle of bank notes, and Lady Yorke said gently: "Will you distribute this amongst your poor?"

The eyes of tbe Rector's wife fllled with tears. She saw in the gift relief for many from utter misery. "If you would see poverty in ail its desolation. Lady Yorke," she said, earnestly. "you should go to a place that is called Sandy Fields."

After the Rector's wife had departed, I turned to Lady Yorke. Will you go?" I a?ked her. 'I do not Know, Miss Chester," she

said, drawing her rich silks and laces tightly around her. "I have never seen anything of tbe kind." "When you die," I remarked, "you will like to have some good deed to remember. You will like to think then that you have

lessened

tbe burden of

one human heart." "You frighten me," she said. "Yes, I will go."

Half an hour afterwards fashionable, self-indulgent Lady Yorke stood in the poorest cottage in Sandy Fields, looking round her in horror and dismay. Only a starving woman and a starving child were there there was no fire, no food, no table, no chair, no bed. It was a most hopeless, helpless case. "A contrast to Westwood," I whispered to her.

At first the woman was sullen and would not speak—her misery was too great. Then she cried out

gw,

v- «*»-v -f "-1 *.

&E jfeSbu. «fc^ ttki.

dying. Heaven itself cannot help me." She looked at Lady Yorke. "You mean well," she said, "but the money that bought that silk gown would have kept my husband alive. He died hun-

Do you think I^shall ever forget at? He moaned all night before ne died from hunger—not pain, but hunger. I loved him with all my heart, and I had to sit and listen until I could have rushed out of the house to slay and rob the first person I met. He died hungry, while in vour house good food is wasted. Ah, my lady, your dogs and horses are better off than we are!"

I saw Lady Yorke's face grow very pale, and her eyes sought mine with a frightened look. "He moaned all night," continued the woman, "and I had nothing to give him but water. He was not one to com-

filain,

but, when death came on him in he morning, he said to me, 'Ah, lassie, the rich have it in this world we shall have it in the next!' I went out and sold the last thing that belonged to me —my wedding-ring—that morning, and I bought tea and bread. 'I have gone past it,' he said. 'It is all over, lassie. It has come too late.' Seven years ago, when we were married, he was tall and straight and handsome. He took me to a prettv home, and he worked hard for me but trouble came, and ho died hungry. My poor lad! My poor lad!"

I knew that in her heart Lady Yorke was thinking of the dainties that, sent away in capricious discontent, would have saved this poor man's life. "Annie is dying," the woman went on. in the same hopeless, helpless voice, with a wild gleam in her eyes. "A few weeks ago stood food might have saved her now it is too late. Last night I went everywhere to get one penny to buy her an orange with. She liad been craving all day for an orange, and every time she fell asleep she dreamt that she held the orange in her hand, and that it fell to the ground. I would have done anything for one penny, but I could not tr&v it "I am very sorry," said Lady Yorke. "If I had known——" "No one knows!" cried the poor woman. "We work and toil, we suffer and die, and no one knows—only Heaven. Heaven counts our miseries and pains, and will change them into blessings. Annie will be in Heaven soon, and there will be no more hunger or cold for her."

For the first time I saw tears in Lady Yorke's eyes. ''Would you like very much to keep Annie with you?" she asked and I hardly knew her voice. It had lost its languor, and was clear and sweet. "Would I? Ah, my lady^ Annie is the very heart that beats in my breast!" she cried. "When she is gone, all is gone. I shall not try to live I shall lie down by her side and die." "How long is it since you have tasted food?" I asked her. "Two whole days," she replied.

Her white quivering hands and trembling hands bore testimony to the truth of tier words. Lady Yorke looked at me. "We must help them," she said and, as she uttered the words, it seemed to me that anew soul shone in her eyes.

We left the house and went to the nearest shops.

"Tell me what to buy, Miss Chester she said and a basket of food, including some fine ripo orartges, was ordered to De taken to the woman 'H Jiousp.

The poor creature never thought of herself. I shall never forget the cry with which she seized an orange and gave it to the child. It was one of delirious delight. "I shall do all I can for you," said Lady Yorke. as she came away. "If we can save little Annie, she shall be saved."

And again I saw tears in the blue eyes which until now had never looked out on other's woes.

CHAPTER VII.

The next morning Lady Yorke was down-stairs, alert and energetic, before nine. Her husband looked up in surprise as he entered the breakfust-rooin. TliiB happened to be one of the rare days when we were alone. "A revolution!" he cried. "The most luxurious woman in England down at the early hour of nine. I cannot understand it." "Do not laugh at me, Stanley." she said. "I arn very much in earnest this morning. I want to talk to you."

When she had sought him before it hail generally been to ask either for new jewels, or a cheque for some heavy bill always something for herself, never anything for any fine else and I am sure that he expected the same thing now. "I want to talk to you, Stanley." She continued. "Do you know what the world is like outside our park gates? Here we have safety and shelter, warmth and luxury—the roses of life without the thorns. Do you know what it is outside?" "I know something of it," he replied, half sadly. "Ah, such a world. Stanley," she said. "There is sickness, sorrow, poverty, hunger. Hunger seems the hardest to bear." she continued, thinking no doubt of those tragical words, MIe died hungry "and I have heard such words, but I never knew what they meant. I knew only the sound, not the sense, until yesterday." Here she paused. "And then?"said Lord Yorke, "What happened then?"

She told him all that had occurred. Just for one half moment I was uncertain as to whether he would be quite pleased or not. Had I been mistaken in thinking that he was sometimes distressed at her supreme indifference to all things except herself? My doubts were soon cleared. He looked at her with tbe most loving smile I had ever seen on his face. ,iT. "I am glad. Louiser"he said. I r»ave always thought that, if you understood more of what was going on in the world around you, you would try to help others. And now about tins poor woman-Mrs. Clinton, did yw sayi* What do you want to do for her?" "Everything," *as the comprehensive reply. "She must have a nice clean cottage in the fresh air, plenty of food and clothes—all that is wanted to make her daughter well." "She shall have it." Lord Yorke said, smiling. "You could not empioy your time or your money better than in relieving uie poor. But all charity most be governed {^discretion* While the

woman and child are ill, keep them but afterwards, althougb you can go on ing her, let her work for herself. It greater charity to place the means of gaining her livelihood in her hands than to give her money enough to live upon." "I see that," she replied gravely. "Oh. Stanley, if I had only thought be*

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for all diseases of tho Kldneyt I

LIVER-

It has specific notion on thin moat Impel organ, onabUng It to throw off torpid! Inaction, •Umulatlnj th« Ml thy ofthe Bile, and by hooping Uio bowels condition, eflfcotlng ita regulardinohn llolorlo ITyonarewiArin moiariai mturi*,twT»uio •xebllioua, dyapeptio, or oon«Up»t«.| ney-Wort will surely roll ,ro quiokl

In this M*Mn to oloiui*o the Syitem one should take a thorough oowao of 80LQ BY DRUQQI8TS. Prlo

HESS

Borru

II.(.SELLERS

—PITTSBURGH..

"LINDSEYS BLOOD SEAR 'HE GREAT TONIC AND Lift PR

TT': PILl

A DISORDERED 18 THE BANI

o. the prsient generation. 11"l Cure of this disease and lis

PfffHTftLLa have gained ft' putatfon. BfcTBemedy Jitco^reirod that actsjiofet

51? allato food. As a natural N ITVOVM System laJBniceaj ax iSaTeloDedTand tbe Bodyj

O1X111M and E. RIVAL, a Hunter at Bayon Sail My plantation Is In a malarial 01 several yeara I could not mako account of bilious dlMMO®

n# arly dUcourftg«l wh*n I b»(j TOTT'B PILLS. The reault w»i

laborora aoon became heart and I ha»a had no further trouble

They rrllfTi1tbr enpdre**! &>' I tip ISIood from nimr (lin bunpl* to nut oat whlrb no owe

Try this wmedjr tttlrlr, *n«. healthy Itlood. Streoa Kfrir*". IVlce.SSCenta. OiUct. Tlnri

TUTT'S

On*v

HAIR

or WnvKr.w

BLACK

by a ulngl" »PI*LT*«ITJON

(ipiU

Imparts a natnral color, mi'l w.-tn ffcld by Druggist*, or scut by of One Dollar. ,i Office, SB Murray Street.j\

Dr. TUTTS OiAKtJAt.of} fnfot matton and It mailed rnXZ on

V-I

LIV

TARAM

The Great Vegetf Corrector it contain*

Ctilomrl or

kirut, ft* Sftin InartfUrii oentratfd Mrdlral i'r Ous Taraxirttn /Mtndfliou,

TAliTt

It a Hprelflr- for nil MseoH I Jjeranaitl IAv*r, JtoV or Kidney0

TJ\

TARAXINE Curea Liver Complaint in all its

Stages.

TARAXINE Cures Habitual Constipation.

TARAA

1» for Sate by atl Dr*o4 Medicine Dca Pricef 50 Cts. 4*1

A. Kim India.

SSS®